I didn’t push for more than that. I just felt relieved realizing I’m no longer one bad month away from watching my entire life cave in.
The ProMotive letters stopped after that. Their acquisitions director called twice during the final weeks, still trying to circle the carcass. Oscar told me to let the calls die in voicemail, so I did.
Once Carter’s buyout cleared and the partnership dissolution finalized, their legal opening disappeared with it. No departing partner. No forced sale. No crack left for them to shove themselves through.
Torres Auto belongs entirely to me now.
I say a quiet prayer for Dad, breathe deep, and feel the weight of the last year finally ease off my chest knowing I managed to keep his name alive.
I stay home long enough to eat, shower, and change before heading back to the shop. The garage door is open when I pull in. The Gran Torino sits in the driveway under the flat gray December light exactly where I left it three weeks ago. Still haven’t taken it out.
I step into the garage and rest my hand flat on the roof. The metal’s cold under my palm. I think about Lance. Some things take exactly as long as they take, no matter how badly you want to force them faster.
An hour later, I come back outside and find a man and his son standing in the lot waiting for me. Kid looks maybe nineteen.
I shake both their hands, and lead them inside the shop.
43
Lance
Christmas at my old house is a week of being someone I haven’t been in years. The place is warm and orderly like it always is, and my dad meets me with the careful brand of humor that says he’s been told how to handle me this year after what happened. I keep myself busy, helping with Mom’s daily care, working shifts at the urgent care and even Hearthside Home, and hovering in the kitchen when the conversation drifts too close to questions I don’t want to answer.
I go downstairs and fall back into the routine. By any reasonable measure, it’s a fine Christmas.
Until my mother mentions him.
“So, how was the fundraiser for George’s shop?” she asks. “Heard from Marcus it went well.”
I think long and hard before deciding not to answer her.
“You had nothing to do with any of it.”
I shrug.
She studies me over the rim of her tea cup. “Lance,” she says, mild as anything. “I helped raise you. Don’t insult both of us.”
“You’re not surprised,” I say instead, thinking back to the first time I introduced George to her.
“I’ve watched you your entire life. You’ve always been too free-spirited to be bound by what society or this family expects.” She pauses, eyes warm with understanding. “The only person who was ever truly confused about the full range of your interests was you. And possibly your brother, though I suspect he was projecting.”
“Yeah. That one.”
“Yes,” she agrees softly. “That one.”
We’ve been waiting for years for Marcus to come out, to arrive at a moment none of us are going to make for him.
“He’s going to get there,” I say. “In his own time, probably with a PowerPoint presentation and supporting documentation.”
Mom almost laughs at that. “Probably.” She studies me with that familiar half-smile that once made opposing counsel nervous. “So, this man.”
I tell her about George. I don’t go into the details or how we became what we were before everything fell apart. I keep to about who he is, what he built. I admit how I somehow ended up almost unable to live without my best friend.
Mom lets me get through it without cutting in. When I’m done, she takes a moment before she speaks.
“He sounds like Matilda,” she says.
“What do you mean?” I ask her, confused.
